Idylls of the King
by Collider
Summary: CC ficlet, set as an epilogue to "Glued". Lilly Rush and John Stillman share a moment of mutual understanding.


Idylls of the King

"How does it feel, Boss?"

John Stillman glanced up for just as long as it took to raise an eyebrow, before darting his head back down into the pile of paperwork he'd been in the process of trawling through. "Solving the case?" he asked with a noncommittal grunt, and Lilly watched as the pen slid across the snow-white sheets like a skater on ice. He was always so neat, so precise; she envied that.

She made a point of neither affirming nor correcting his assertion, knowing damn well she wouldn't get a response from him either way until he was done with the pile, and simply stood quietly in the corner of his office and watched him at work. Mundane and pointless as the paperwork was, to Lilly Rush, it felt rather like she imagined it must've felt to watch Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel. The intensity with which he focused, the neat pen-strokes, the care he took in everything he did, however unnecessary it was in the long run. It was hypnotic, in a strange sort of way, and she could do nothing but stand there in awe.

"Feels good," he said, finally, breaking the spell by pushing the papers aside and finally raising his head to look at her properly. He took a breath, held it for a moment, then let it out again. "Suppose I ought to thank you. Would never have solved it without your help." His eyes softened then, a nostalgic sort of affection, and Lilly felt herself begin to shine beneath the glow of it. "Thanks, Rush."

"Anytime, Boss," she replied, and let the moment hang for a few moments, just basking in the obvious joy behind his eyes and the pride he felt. It should've been enough; she should've taken the praise and walked away. But she was Lilly Rush, and she was nothing if not fatally curious. "Wasn't talking about the case, though," she said, feeling the blissful bubble shattering.

Now he frowned. "Oh…?"

She smiled again, warmly. "You're going to be a grandfather," she reminded him (as if he could have forgotten), with a mischievous smile that the greatest forces in the world couldn't have removed. "You're gonna be Grandpa Stillman. How does _that_ feel?"

Anyone else, she knew, would never have gotten away with it. Anyone else in Homicide would've been kicked out of the door before they even got the sentence out. But not Lilly Rush, and that was why she'd taken her chances by broaching the question. Besides, more important than any respect or affection the boss might have for her, it was simply too much fun making the lieutenant squirm.

Though she knew he would never kick her out or yell at her for overstepping the boundaries between lieutenant and detective, she nonetheless expected him to throw out something along the lines of '_watch your step, Rush, you're bordering on inappropriate'_, but even that never came. Instead, the perplexed frown-lines that had creased his forehead began to melt away in favour of a fatherly chuckle; it was a look she hadn't seen so clearly before, but it had been right there behind his eyes, hiding, in the moment he'd confessed the fact of his newfound heritage to her in the first place. He looked… proud. Not of her, for asking the question, but of himself for being willing to answer it.

"Happy," he said, with an honesty that engulfed her.

His eyes sparkled, warm and bright, and so far removed from his usual steely professionalism that she had to blink a couple of times just to be positive she wasn't imagining it. She watched him closely (as a bi-product of her chosen profession, she'd found it was almost impossible to look at someone in any other way), and couldn't quite keep the happy smile from touching her own face. The joy practically radiated from every inch of him and, as was often the case with joy, it was addictive.

The case, she knew, had taken a lot out of him – both professionally and personally. It was refreshing to see him now, so removed from that, so at ease and comfortable with himself. As if closing the case had given him a new lease of life, as if it had helped him to find himself. Lilly Rush knew all about the fulfilment that closing a case could bring, and she could only imagine how much more so it would feel when that case was personal. Closing this case, for John Stillman, had to feel like climbing Everest; he'd always believed it was impossible, and yet he stood there now at the summit, a little breathless but filled with a completeness that nobody else could fully understand. Lilly respected that, even if she couldn't quite share it.

Odd as it sounded, there was a depth of closure in closing a case, and Lilly could see that painting itself across the boss's face right at that moment, underneath the joy and the radiance of knowing he was going to be a grandfather, shaping that joy and building upon that radiance. His daughter, the daughter whose entry into the world he'd missed because of this damn case, was having a child of her own… and, this time, John Stillman would be there every step of the way. This time, nothing in the world could keep him from being at her side, from seeing with his own eyes the miracle of a new life coming into the world. Once again, his family was growing, and now he would do everything he'd failed to last time. This time, he'd get it right.

The silence between them stretched out, filling the tiny office with warmth and contentment, and Lilly would have been satisfied if it had endured forever. But, like so many other aspects of her life, it was fleeting, and she barely had the time to fully grasp it before it had vanished.

"Lil." A touch of the joy remained in Stillman's voice as he spoke, eyes glittering as he looked at her, and she nodded with a combination of professional politeness and personal respect. The word hung upon the air, suspended in the moment, before he continued, "Thank you."

She shrugged; the gesture was dismissive, but still acceptant of the gratitude… and, in an odd sort of way, grateful in itself. "Just doing my job, Boss," she pointed out.

There were a million things he could've said then, and they both knew it. He could've made the point that she hadn't _needed_ to take the case when he'd asked her of it. He couldn't pointed out that she'd helped to solve the case that had foiled him for half his career. He could've said any one of a million things, but the one thing he did say was the one thing Lilly hadn't expected. He grinned, the expression almost teasing in a gentle sort of way, and completely lacking in the professionalism she'd expected of him.

"Wasn't talking about the case," he said, in a perfect mirror of her own previous words. Lilly blinked, the capacity for words failing her in that moment, and the gently mocking smile on Stillman's face eased into one of genuine warmth and appreciation. "We work cold jobs now. Would've gotten around to it eventually." He spoke the words as if they were a simple observation of fact, but there was no hiding the ghost of pride that laced his voice as he did so. He said it like a statement of fact because he believed it _was_ a statement of fact, and that meant more to Lilly Rush than she could put into words.

"What then?" she asked, finally regaining her voice.

He took a breath, not hesitant or preparatory, but simply as a means of extending the moment. She'd seen him use that tactic on suspects before, to give them time to consider their confession, and on witnesses to give them a precious moment to compose themselves. But she'd never seen him use it on himself like this before, and in that instant he granted himself to absorb the emotions of the moment, she knew what he was thanking her for, and she felt her heart swell in mutual gratitude.

"Thank you... for asking," he explained, with simplicty.

And she understood. He was the lieutenant, the boss, the guy in the big office. He was the guy who, if he found out his daughter was having a baby, had to keep it to himself lest it interfere with his professional exterior. He was the man for whom appearances were everything and keeping the distance from those who worked under him was crucial. He was Lieutenant Stillman. He wasn't allowed a personal life, much less one that he could share with his colleagues at work, however intimate the team was. And she, Lilly Rush, had broken that invisible fourth wall, torn through it as if it had never been there, and asked him the question he'd secretly been wishing with every fibre of his being that she would ask, the question that allowed him that one brief moment that meant everything, to share his own joy with the people he worked with. For one precious second, he wasn't Lieutenant Stillman. He was John Stillman, and he was finally allowed to admit that _he_ had something to celebrate. It was a gift she'd given him, and one she hadn't even realised she'd been giving at the time. But, knowing it now, she made a promise to herself; as long as she, Lilly Rush, was under him… she'd make damn sure he got every opportunity to share those moments of joy with everyone who stuck around long enough to listen. The hell with the cases, even the ones like this that were so deeply personal. It wasn't those moments that made a team… it was _these_.

"Anytime, Boss," she said. "Anytime."


End file.
